On August 5, 2014, a very special man passed away. He was my father and was buried exactly 100 years to the day from when he was born.
One might call Joe London an extraordinary ordinary man. He was a product of parents who left Russia during the Pogroms to come to America fearlessly facing the unknown. A breadwinner in his teens, he supported his widowed mother and later, additionally, his wife, her younger sister, his mother-in-law and then, yet another female – me!
He was tall, dark and handsome. He looked like a movie star but could work like a longshoreman. He joined the New York City police force during the early 1940’s to support his family and took his job seriously. He was shot, knifed, and suffered sundry bruises over the years and was the last one to ever believe he would live a long life. My mother hated his job and he never told her about his work when he came home. He stood up to antisemitism on the force and bad guys on the streets in the same way. He tolerated neither and the bullies soon backed down.
My father could weave a story or a joke like no other and he could master any trade he put his mind to. He was never afraid of hard work, whether pulling a massive hose down a long driveway to fill an oil tank for my Aunt and Uncle’s new business, (he took a leave of absence to help them) or creating a new polling system for the City of New York’s voting machines, or speaking to kids groups at the Police Athletic League.
One might call Joe London an extraordinary ordinary man. He was a product of parents who left Russia during the Pogroms to come to America fearlessly facing the unknown. A breadwinner in his teens, he supported his widowed mother and later, additionally, his wife, her younger sister, his mother-in-law and then, yet another female – me!
He was tall, dark and handsome. He looked like a movie star but could work like a longshoreman. He joined the New York City police force during the early 1940’s to support his family and took his job seriously. He was shot, knifed, and suffered sundry bruises over the years and was the last one to ever believe he would live a long life. My mother hated his job and he never told her about his work when he came home. He stood up to antisemitism on the force and bad guys on the streets in the same way. He tolerated neither and the bullies soon backed down.
My father could weave a story or a joke like no other and he could master any trade he put his mind to. He was never afraid of hard work, whether pulling a massive hose down a long driveway to fill an oil tank for my Aunt and Uncle’s new business, (he took a leave of absence to help them) or creating a new polling system for the City of New York’s voting machines, or speaking to kids groups at the Police Athletic League.
At 6’1”, he was a natural athlete and loved sports. When he was a kid, he hid his football jersey in his cousin’s house so his mother wouldn’t find it, (whoever heard of a nice Jewish boy playing football?) He got caught, of course, and his 4’11” mother dragged him home by the ear. He was tough but she was tougher!
He fell in love and stayed in love for almost 70 years. My mother was his soul mate and despite adversity, loss, and hard times, their marriage was rock solid. Even in their 80’s I would catch them “smooching” on the couch or holding hands. He held doors for her, sent her flowers and candy (and me too!) and created a good life with the riches of family instead of money.
My father read everything and I mean everything. His midnight to 8 A.M. shift allowed him to take me to the library during my summer vacations where he, in the adult section, and I in the children’s, would start with the A’s in June and wind up in the Z’s in September. We shared this in common although I feared I disappointed him when I failed to ice skate, roller skate, ski, swim, hit a ball or make a basket as perhaps a male child would.
He started to smoke in his early teens and when we moved to our 2 family house in Queens where I grew up, he liked to sit in his chair in our living room and listen to me practice the piano. He was probably in his early 30’s when he had a huge coughing attack. He picked up his pack of cigarettes, threw them away and never smoked again. Nothing stopped my father when he was determined.
In the early years of my marriage, he became a father to my husband, taught him how to drive, build things, fix things, and become a homeowner and a fixer upper. I think he had much to do with Bernie becoming an exacting builder and cabinet maker. He could figure anything out and taught me to never give up when things weren’t easy. He did the same with his grandsons. He told them as they grew up, “Remember, always be a man. Whatever comes your way, face it and deal with it; be a man”. I know it made an impression for when David, in his first college English class, was given the assignment to write about the most memorable person in his life, he chose my father. Poppy was no pushover but his boys were his world and his pride in them was boundless. In 1984, when they were in their teens, he wrote a poem for them. How prophetic those words are today:
He fell in love and stayed in love for almost 70 years. My mother was his soul mate and despite adversity, loss, and hard times, their marriage was rock solid. Even in their 80’s I would catch them “smooching” on the couch or holding hands. He held doors for her, sent her flowers and candy (and me too!) and created a good life with the riches of family instead of money.
My father read everything and I mean everything. His midnight to 8 A.M. shift allowed him to take me to the library during my summer vacations where he, in the adult section, and I in the children’s, would start with the A’s in June and wind up in the Z’s in September. We shared this in common although I feared I disappointed him when I failed to ice skate, roller skate, ski, swim, hit a ball or make a basket as perhaps a male child would.
He started to smoke in his early teens and when we moved to our 2 family house in Queens where I grew up, he liked to sit in his chair in our living room and listen to me practice the piano. He was probably in his early 30’s when he had a huge coughing attack. He picked up his pack of cigarettes, threw them away and never smoked again. Nothing stopped my father when he was determined.
In the early years of my marriage, he became a father to my husband, taught him how to drive, build things, fix things, and become a homeowner and a fixer upper. I think he had much to do with Bernie becoming an exacting builder and cabinet maker. He could figure anything out and taught me to never give up when things weren’t easy. He did the same with his grandsons. He told them as they grew up, “Remember, always be a man. Whatever comes your way, face it and deal with it; be a man”. I know it made an impression for when David, in his first college English class, was given the assignment to write about the most memorable person in his life, he chose my father. Poppy was no pushover but his boys were his world and his pride in them was boundless. In 1984, when they were in their teens, he wrote a poem for them. How prophetic those words are today:
POEM
So far away and yet so close
There are in transition two human beings.
A child/youth and a youth/man.
And here in my heart there is this joy
And pride
Almost a pain that I seem to remember
I know my vulnerability
The fact that my future is so much
Shorter than my past
But loving, caring and hoping for so
Much for them, will still those thoughts.
Their future is still a blank page,
But we are forever bound together.
For they are my immortality,
My grandsons and I.
~Joseph London~
December 1984
So far away and yet so close
There are in transition two human beings.
A child/youth and a youth/man.
And here in my heart there is this joy
And pride
Almost a pain that I seem to remember
I know my vulnerability
The fact that my future is so much
Shorter than my past
But loving, caring and hoping for so
Much for them, will still those thoughts.
Their future is still a blank page,
But we are forever bound together.
For they are my immortality,
My grandsons and I.
~Joseph London~
December 1984
Then came the blessing on blessings, Katrina and Neal - heaven and earth to Poppy. I’m sorry his advanced years couldn’t really show them the Joe London we knew, but he was determined to interact with them. Katrina’s puppet shows, with Neal as her assistant, gave him great joy at Passover and what a site to see, Katrina and Neal competing on the shuffleboard court with Poppy playing from his wheelchair.
My father loved many things besides his first love, his family. He loved baseball and the Brooklyn Dodgers. When they left New York, he never forgave them and lost interest in the game, except when he himself played first base on a senior team until the pitcher went blind and the catcher died.
He loved music, especially the voice of Mario Lanza. David searched high and low on the internet for me, and finally found, somewhere in South America, English speaking versions of all the famous tenor’s movies. Poppy’s favorite was the life story of Enrico Caruso. He would close his eyes and you could see and feel his pure joy.
He loved all books. I found this an easy gift to bring happiness into his life after my mother died. He especially loved the Horatio Hornblower epic stories by CS Forester about a fictitious British commander during the 19th century. When I discovered a bound copy of the entire series and presented it to him, he was overjoyed.
My father had a way with words, the spoken and the written. One could only imagine what path his life might of taken if he had the advantages he gave his daughter. To keep his mind active, my dear Terry would send Poppy crossword puzzles to do. After his vision failed, I would do them with him. I’d ask the questions, he’d give me the answer and I’d write it for him. He always knew the answers.
Toward the end, his cataracts blocked his vision and his hearing loss made us all shout all the time. He refused to acknowledge these infirmities. Did I mention he was stubborn? We feared when the time came for him to no longer drive, there would be a war. Mercifully, he lost his driver’s license when he was about 95. Jason found it in the crevices of his recliner and we never told him. But he took it as a sign and decided not to drive anymore. Thank you, God! By that time, his car was only 5 years old with about 4000 miles on it. At 90, he had decided to buy a new Saturn (of all things) and took Jason along to negotiate with him. After about 6 hours we were all getting worried. No car – no Dad – no Jason. Finally, they arrived- victorious from the war. Jason got him a 5 year lease (at age 90), and my father’s reply to the salesman? “You’re a sharp guy, fella. Now you have to bank on me living to 95!” In February of my father’s 95th year, we celebrated his full ownership of the car I still drive when I come to Florida. It died, briefly the day my father died, until I replaced the battery. Interesting.
My father also relished food and was a good cook, unlike my mother, who had many other virtues. (You can guess which one of my parents I take after). But in his last years, he would love to go to the Festival Flea Market for his favorite – a hot dog, potato knish, and a diet Dr. Brown’s cream soda. On this one day, when he was about 96, a T.V. crew spotted us at the food court and asked my father if he’d like to film a spot in a commercial for the mall. His response, “Sure, if my daughter can be on T.V., I guess I can too”. He was told if they chose his segment he would be paid $200 flea market dollars, but if not, he’d get 20. It’s OK, son, he quipped to the director. It won’t put me in another tax bracket! Of course, his segment was chosen and friends in Florida in the Boca area kept calling me to ask if that was my father on T.V.
Joe London was a “man’s man”, but he loved women. He would say to my mother – isn’t it OK if I look as long as I don’t touch? He especially loved blondes. After my mother died, I made my father a yearly birthday party. He’d open his presents. His favorite was always tee shirts with photos of the kids on them. It got so, Jason bought a press on machine and made them by the dozens. I’d ask, “Is there anything else I can get you, Daddy? “ And his reply was always the same – “A 35 year old blond!” It became a standing joke in our family. One time, after I’d done the Costco run, The Walgreens run, The Wal-Mart run and finally the Publix run for the tons of sugar free cookies my father consumed in his life, I asked him the usual question – “Anything else I can get you, Daddy?” His reply was,” Did you bring me a 30 year old blond?” When I asked him why 30, not 35 – his reply,” I’m feeling pretty good today!”
Being my father’s daughter, while celebrating his birthday at one of his favorite haunts, Olive Garden, in the year Barbie turned 50, after he opened his presents I asked the, by now, famous question and he gave me his even more famous answer. This time he got his wish. I had provided every guest with a blond Barbie doll face on a stick.
In his final years, another person came into his life. She cared for him like a father, a husband and a son. She treated him with the respect he had earned all his life. Her name is Dell. For some reason, although he loved her very much, he changed her name to Bell. Perhaps it was his hearing. Perhaps he thought she was his” bell” of freedom from the indignities of his old age infirmities, She never made him feel demeaned or helpless, and he loved her for that - and so do I.
In the end, I feared for his death, not for him but for me, my family, and all those who knew him throughout his life. When his friends passed on, he still had the friends he had made of my generation, who loved him, respected him, and truly enjoyed being with him.
But - my father never feared death and I believe after my mother died, he lived for his family more than for himself. He would walk by the little hallway leading to my parent’s bedroom and kiss my mother’s picture “good-night”. Often I would hear him say,” I’ll be there soon, honey, but not yet.”
The “soon” has come and my father died peacefully in his own home as were his wishes. I wasn’t there at the moment of his passing and perhaps he didn’t want me to be, but he did not die alone, His loving Dell and her partner Frieda were there. He died as he lived, without fanfare, but with dignity.
My father will be remembered by many who have “Joey” stories to tell, but most of all, he will live in the hearts of my children and theirs, my cousins who saw him as the handsome cohort of their colorful grandfather, by the women and children whose lives he saved in the projects of Brooklyn, by my friends whose lives he touched becoming part of their life tapestry, and by one loving daughter. He told everyone, at the end, that he made only one child, but a good one.
Thank you Daddy for the legacy you have passed on to me and our family. There will be Poppy stories as long as we all shall live.
My father loved many things besides his first love, his family. He loved baseball and the Brooklyn Dodgers. When they left New York, he never forgave them and lost interest in the game, except when he himself played first base on a senior team until the pitcher went blind and the catcher died.
He loved music, especially the voice of Mario Lanza. David searched high and low on the internet for me, and finally found, somewhere in South America, English speaking versions of all the famous tenor’s movies. Poppy’s favorite was the life story of Enrico Caruso. He would close his eyes and you could see and feel his pure joy.
He loved all books. I found this an easy gift to bring happiness into his life after my mother died. He especially loved the Horatio Hornblower epic stories by CS Forester about a fictitious British commander during the 19th century. When I discovered a bound copy of the entire series and presented it to him, he was overjoyed.
My father had a way with words, the spoken and the written. One could only imagine what path his life might of taken if he had the advantages he gave his daughter. To keep his mind active, my dear Terry would send Poppy crossword puzzles to do. After his vision failed, I would do them with him. I’d ask the questions, he’d give me the answer and I’d write it for him. He always knew the answers.
Toward the end, his cataracts blocked his vision and his hearing loss made us all shout all the time. He refused to acknowledge these infirmities. Did I mention he was stubborn? We feared when the time came for him to no longer drive, there would be a war. Mercifully, he lost his driver’s license when he was about 95. Jason found it in the crevices of his recliner and we never told him. But he took it as a sign and decided not to drive anymore. Thank you, God! By that time, his car was only 5 years old with about 4000 miles on it. At 90, he had decided to buy a new Saturn (of all things) and took Jason along to negotiate with him. After about 6 hours we were all getting worried. No car – no Dad – no Jason. Finally, they arrived- victorious from the war. Jason got him a 5 year lease (at age 90), and my father’s reply to the salesman? “You’re a sharp guy, fella. Now you have to bank on me living to 95!” In February of my father’s 95th year, we celebrated his full ownership of the car I still drive when I come to Florida. It died, briefly the day my father died, until I replaced the battery. Interesting.
My father also relished food and was a good cook, unlike my mother, who had many other virtues. (You can guess which one of my parents I take after). But in his last years, he would love to go to the Festival Flea Market for his favorite – a hot dog, potato knish, and a diet Dr. Brown’s cream soda. On this one day, when he was about 96, a T.V. crew spotted us at the food court and asked my father if he’d like to film a spot in a commercial for the mall. His response, “Sure, if my daughter can be on T.V., I guess I can too”. He was told if they chose his segment he would be paid $200 flea market dollars, but if not, he’d get 20. It’s OK, son, he quipped to the director. It won’t put me in another tax bracket! Of course, his segment was chosen and friends in Florida in the Boca area kept calling me to ask if that was my father on T.V.
Joe London was a “man’s man”, but he loved women. He would say to my mother – isn’t it OK if I look as long as I don’t touch? He especially loved blondes. After my mother died, I made my father a yearly birthday party. He’d open his presents. His favorite was always tee shirts with photos of the kids on them. It got so, Jason bought a press on machine and made them by the dozens. I’d ask, “Is there anything else I can get you, Daddy? “ And his reply was always the same – “A 35 year old blond!” It became a standing joke in our family. One time, after I’d done the Costco run, The Walgreens run, The Wal-Mart run and finally the Publix run for the tons of sugar free cookies my father consumed in his life, I asked him the usual question – “Anything else I can get you, Daddy?” His reply was,” Did you bring me a 30 year old blond?” When I asked him why 30, not 35 – his reply,” I’m feeling pretty good today!”
Being my father’s daughter, while celebrating his birthday at one of his favorite haunts, Olive Garden, in the year Barbie turned 50, after he opened his presents I asked the, by now, famous question and he gave me his even more famous answer. This time he got his wish. I had provided every guest with a blond Barbie doll face on a stick.
In his final years, another person came into his life. She cared for him like a father, a husband and a son. She treated him with the respect he had earned all his life. Her name is Dell. For some reason, although he loved her very much, he changed her name to Bell. Perhaps it was his hearing. Perhaps he thought she was his” bell” of freedom from the indignities of his old age infirmities, She never made him feel demeaned or helpless, and he loved her for that - and so do I.
In the end, I feared for his death, not for him but for me, my family, and all those who knew him throughout his life. When his friends passed on, he still had the friends he had made of my generation, who loved him, respected him, and truly enjoyed being with him.
But - my father never feared death and I believe after my mother died, he lived for his family more than for himself. He would walk by the little hallway leading to my parent’s bedroom and kiss my mother’s picture “good-night”. Often I would hear him say,” I’ll be there soon, honey, but not yet.”
The “soon” has come and my father died peacefully in his own home as were his wishes. I wasn’t there at the moment of his passing and perhaps he didn’t want me to be, but he did not die alone, His loving Dell and her partner Frieda were there. He died as he lived, without fanfare, but with dignity.
My father will be remembered by many who have “Joey” stories to tell, but most of all, he will live in the hearts of my children and theirs, my cousins who saw him as the handsome cohort of their colorful grandfather, by the women and children whose lives he saved in the projects of Brooklyn, by my friends whose lives he touched becoming part of their life tapestry, and by one loving daughter. He told everyone, at the end, that he made only one child, but a good one.
Thank you Daddy for the legacy you have passed on to me and our family. There will be Poppy stories as long as we all shall live.